


Outtakes

by YankingAwry



Series: The Lady Doth Protest [3]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M, Loss of Virginity, M.J's POV, NOW WITH FANART? WHAT?, and trying not to loose any teeth in the process, just two awkward teens fumbling their way through awkward sex, you know how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YankingAwry/pseuds/YankingAwry
Summary: The first time M.J. unhooks her bra in front of Peter, she makes eye contact with his Tony Stark funko pop and thinks to herself:pass it off as a back itch and Peter will never know.





	Outtakes

**Author's Note:**

> only my biggest & most fervent thanks to [weatheredlaw](https://weatheredlaw.tumblr.com) (you can read cat's stuff [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw)) for the brilliant beta'ing. 
> 
> this one goes out to the two tumblr anons who messaged me 23 years ago asking me to write more mj/peter. one of them asked for mj/peter + puppies, and so obviously i wrote a fic about the teenage experience of sex vis-à-vis deep-seated insecurities & the acute fear of vulnerability
> 
> special thanks to 'time to pretend' by MGMT for providing the Mood

 

 

The first time M.J. unhooks her bra in front of Peter, she makes eye contact with his Tony Stark funko pop and thinks to herself: _pass it off as a back itch and Peter will never know._ The moment passes, and she flings her Hane’s black cotton 32 C somewhere to the floor.

“Um,” Peter says, his face still registering the vague shock of someone who has been firmly pushed away in the middle of some excellent tonguing. “M.J, wh--” and he stops cold as she pulls the t-shirt over her head. It gets stuck around her forehead for what is realistically two seconds but feels like the length of a fucking prison term for double homicide, and _this_ , this is why she doesn’t do spontaneity. When the t-shirt drops over the side of the bed, her shoulders slump.

“So. What’s up,” she says, smoothing back her hair. Her heart is thumping in her throat like it’s been rigged to a bass speaker. Very carefully, she does not look at Peter.

There’s a rustling sound, and then--and then a t-shirt lands on her foot, the one that’s dangling off the bed. She kicks it off and looks up, profoundly relieved. Peter’s staring at her, and he’s all there: the dumb look on his face, soft, afraid, amazed (Jesus); the obscene abundance of pectoral and abdominal muscles. He is decidedly not staring at--at Key and Peele down there, which is either promising, or like, not. She can’t tell. His lips are pressed into a grave line, the one that makes the sides of his mouth look adorably puffy, and there’s a furrow of anxiety in between his eyebrows.

“M.J,” he starts, a slight tremor to his voice; shit. “Should I--do you--”

Oh, man. “Sure, yeah, that may in fact be the whole point,” she says, inching herself into his lap. “Assuming we’re not recreational nudists,” and then she runs a hand through his hair, once, then twice, slowly--because he’s blinking weird, which means he’s overthinking this. “Not that there’s anything wrong with recreational nudists. I mean, those guys are really living their truth, you know--”

Peter’s eyes go heavy-lidded; he turns his cheek into her palm, and the grip on her waist tightens. “If you’re freaked out,” she says quietly, and his eyes flutter open. “If you are--it’s not a big deal. It’s not. I can put my bra back on and we’ll just--make out. We can go back to that.”

Peter’s big, warm hands travel up her back, until his palms are over her shoulder blades: a gentle, supportive pressure. And then he’s looking up at her, almost defiant, his chin a small divot on her sternum. Okay, all right. Cool, cool cool. She’s definitely not thinking about how the angle he’s at is the same as when her front camera accidentally opens. Because Peter’s face is currently, you know, in between her _naked boobs_ , and she has better intrusive thoughts to run away from shrieking, she really does--“Hey, if _you’re_ freaked out--” Peter says, smiling a little in confusion; M.J. can’t imagine what he saw on her face. She laughs, hysterical, and then Peter presses a kiss to the underside of her left breast, right where the sweat collects.

She exhales.

Peter lifts his head: “I’m going to--”

M.J. braces herself on his shoulders: “Go for it.”

 

Five minutes later, M.J. is panting into the hair at Peter’s temple. Her blood circulation aggressively redirected to between her legs about a half a second after Peter’s tongue found her nipple. And after that she had been in the middle of an embarrassingly senseless “ _Peter_ \--” when she abruptly realised she’d been trying to grind down on his dick for a full minute, and Peter didn’t understand _at all_ , he didn’t understand she was experiencing a crisis of bodily autonomy in the face of--of sexual delirium? Jesus!--he just took his mouth off her breast with glazed sort of look, and just as her nipple started to freeze over, he hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her, like it was _nothing_ \--like she was a backpack, and okay, so sue her, sometimes she forgets she’s dating the Spiderman--and deposited her right on top of his dick. And now M.J. is basically sitting on top Peter’s dick, and god, if it had felt great before--“Thanks,” she manages, worrying about going too hard on him with her jeans while he’s in soft tracksuit pants. Should she--should they take off their pants? And then she feels him grip her thighs and lift, and let down, and lift, and let down--and--oh, for sure, she can get with this program.

Which she does, a little too enthusiastically: Peter lifts just as M.J. tries leveraging off his shoulders, and her head smacks the wooden slats supporting the upper bunk bed, hard.

“Ow, ow, ow,” she says, as she is quickly lowered onto the bed. Peter looks aghast: he puts a few fingers to where her forehead feels like one giant bruise, and tenderly probes. M.J. clenches her fist, resisting the overwhelming instinct to sock him in the face.

“I’m getting ice,” he says, horror replaced by grimness; he makes to hop off the bed.

She pulls back on Peter’s hand urgently: “Dude, I’m fine. Stop.”

“I’ll be back in two seconds,” he says, not really listening.

“You still have a hard-on, by the way,” and then he turns to her with the Look: mingled exasperation and fondness, with a dash of _I want to kiss you but that would only encourage you_. “Didn’t know concussion was your thing, Peter.” He rolls his eyes, and kisses her hand before shaking it off his. “That’s some deviant shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” and he disappears out the room.

When Peter returns with a bag of frozen peas, she’s put her bra and t-shirt back on. May will be back in another twenty minutes, it doesn’t make sense to push it. Plus she needs to work on her game-face, the one where she’s not visibly telegraphing with every muscle movement that she reached serious second base with May’s nephew.

“I’ve got it,” she says, and he hands her the bag wordlessly, lips pursed in concern: Jesus, it isn't even that bad. The frosted plastic crinkles as she presses it to her forehead. It’s a lot of stimulation, and she can’t quite suppress a flinch: when she looks over at Peter, a groan of frustration escapes her throat. “Stop looking at me like I’m going to make you sign a DNR.”

He doesn’t say anything: he just looks miserable. M.J kisses him, and after a moment Peter kisses her back, almost angrily: god, this boy. “Put your shirt on,” she says once they both break off. “And next time can you just--”

M.J. walks over to Peter’s desk and turns that _fucking_ funko pop so that it’s facing away from the bed. Peter laughs, burying his face in his hands.

“Destroy this, please. His eyes are just black and like, drilling a hole directly into my soul--”

“Now you’re just describing every single funko pop, ever--”

“Then they should _all_ be destroyed.”

“It’s a limited edition.” Peter says, smiling wide. “Don’t make me do that.” And she smiles back at him too, settling into the chair and propping her feet on his lap--and then the quality of Peter’s smile changes, and he looks away. He grabs his shirt, as if to slip it over his head, and then crumples it in his hands and just stares at it.

“I was,” Peter starts, in a small voice. “really, really bad at this. I’m so sorry--”

“ _Dude_ ,” M.J says, sitting up immediately, because that is just so fundamentally wrong. “You were awesome. You were running this show. _I_ was the one who made it all weird--”

“What are you _saying_ ,” Peter says. “Firstly, your skin is so soft, it’s insane. You don’t even use moisturiser! You hate moisturiser! And then, like, you’re so brave. When you took your bra off--that was so brave. I really just want to stress how brave I think that was,” and M.J. starts laughing: it’s not like she doesn’t agree with him, but god, he’s such a dork, “No, really, because I would’ve never--I don’t know. And your breast is brilliant. I mean, your breasts, both of them, plural--” Holy shit. “I should shut up. I’m going to shut up.” A beat, then: “Also you’re such a good kisser,” and he says it so earnestly, M.J.’s about three seconds away from punching a wall--she launches off the chair and hugs him, hard.

He smiles at her, sort of dazed, and finally pulls his t-shirt on. Then, out of nowhere: “You know what? It’s fine. This is fine. This stuff is supposed to be awkward--”

“Exactly, yeah, it’ll take time. And until then we’ll just consider these as outtakes.”

“Outtakes,” Peter repeats. “Right, outtakes! Exactly. Awesome.”

“Awesome.”  

 

***

 

Peter lifts his head up and looks at her, his mouth and jaw glistening, smeared with her--her--  

“Did that do anything for you, that time?” he asks. M.J’s face is burning up so bad she’s almost lost all sensation in her cheeks.

“Uh.” she says, and Peter lets out a short sound of frustration.

Immediately, his thumbs make small, comforting circles in the skin on the inside of her thighs. “That wasn’t at you, I’m sorry--that was at me. I want to be better at this. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop,” M.J. says, and sits up, pulling her hair into a bun. Her eyes involuntarily glance over at Peter’s desk, where Tony Stark the demon funko pop has successfully been jammed inside a drawer for two weeks and counting. Okay, Michelle Jones: bite the bullet. “Peter, let’s--stop. I, uh. I love you for trying this but neither of us are having--fun, with this? Right now? And that sucks.”

Peter straightens and drags the back of his hand over his mouth, looking at her with mournful, puppy dog eyes. “M.J--”

“Hey, we talked about this. Outtakes, right?”

“Right,” he says, sounding totally unconvinced and actually, pretty close to heartbroken. And then: “Next time.”

“Next time,” she agrees, and takes his hand, squeezing it tight. “And by then we’ll both have done our homework. I’ll take Cosmo, you take Wikihow--” He lets out a laugh, _bingo,_  “and we become ancient masters of oral sex, easy. We’ll set up, like, a crumbling monastery in the Himalayas and white people are going to trek for miles to receive our teachings, except we’re going to be like, dude, just read Cosmo. You gotta read Cosmo. And they’re going to be so pissed off--” And Peter kisses her. “I’m kidding by the way, you know I’m kidding, right? Not about reading up, but Cosmo, Cosmo is the worst-- _mmpf_.”

“You have absolutely no idea when to stop milking a bit, do you?” he asks her after a while.

M.J’s breathing hard, like she’s rounding the last corner of a half-marathon. Peter isn’t; stupid, unfair super stamina.  

In dwelling upon this unfairness, it takes a second or so to process: “ _Hey_ \--”

“I’m not complaining,” he clarifies, smiling. “I’m so not complaining.”

 

***

 

“One sec,” M.J. says, pulling off and breathing deeply. There’s spit all over her chin, gross: she wipes it off with the heel of her palm. Her eyes are watering. Peter immediately reaches down and cups her face; his breathing is ragged too (finally). “Sorry, I think it’s the gag reflex.”

He pulls a face. “Ugh.”

“No, no, it’s cool--” He ignores her, pulling her up off the floor and gathering her into his arms. M.J. obliges, stretching her legs. Idly, she takes his dick in her hand--it’s somewhat moist, but the saliva is quickly drying up. The warmth, and the texture of skin stretched taut over veins and muscle: it’s like holding something alive and tender; something capable of movement, of being hurt.

Peter whispers into her hair, almost confessional: “It’s weird seeing you kneeling. It’s like we’re in a, uh, a porno.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know if I like it.”

“Yeah,” M.J. sighs, watching him uncurl her hand off his dick, and interlock their fingers. “I think...hm. I just want it to be _us_ , but I feel like my mind is so polluted with these scripts, of how things are supposed to go, and what I’m supposed to feel, and it’s weird. And distancing.”

“Distancing,” Peter echoes. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.” They sit in silence for some time, until the doorbell sends M.J. toppling over Peter, reaching for her t-shirt.

“You said your brother was going to be back by 9!” Peter says, frantically buttoning up.

“That’s what Donny told me, _fuck_ ,” she grits out, ripping off her jeans and putting them the right way round this time, fuck, “Fuck,” she repeats, and then stops, remembering: “Peter. Peter, it’s the pizza.”

Peter crashes back into bed, covering his face. “Oh my god. Oh my god, I have palpitations. My heart is palpitating.”

“Loser,” she scoffs, as if she isn’t up to her eyeballs in adrenalin. Then: “Do you have change?”

 

***

 

“Good?” Peter asks distractedly, and M.J. takes a shuddering breath while gulping at the same time, so it sounds wet and gruesome, like the death of sea-lion. Peter seems to interpret that just fine: his face is pinched with concentration, and he ducks back down immediately. God, okay. He’s pressing down with the flat of his tongue and dragging it up in a firm line, dipping out of her vagina, all _right_ , and trailing up to her clitoris, _Jesus_ , with deadly accuracy.

“I can’t move,” she says later. “I can’t--oh, man.”

Peter literally pumps his fist, which, while M.J. hates so much on a principle level, she can’t begrudge at all: not one bit. He leans down to kiss her, and she yells, pushing back on his chest.

“No, gross!”

“Hey,” he says, wounded, and yeah, _fine_ , fair: she cups his neck and pulls him down onto her, licking into his mouth. It’s not that bad at all.

“Wiki-fucking-how, what do you know, huh,” she says when he pulls off, and falters a little at how somberly he’s looking down at her. She opens her mouth: she was going to say something more, something witty, but she’s--forgotten. Slowly, Peter brushes her fringe aside, and kisses her again, deep, exploratory; a sense of imperativeness, of needing to know her mouth like the back of his hand. “So,” she says after a few minutes, breathing hard, which, again: no surprise.

“So,” Peter says, agreeing.

“That’s. That goes in the final fucking cut.”

 

***

 

Peter totters, backing up against the wall, his Spider-suit pooled between his legs and rucked down to the ankles, along with his boxers.

“Probably do the, the, the thing with your fingers, where they go adhesive on ceilings,” she says, charmed by how red his face is, and Peter gets the idea: he spreads his hands against the wallpaper, and then looks down at her, swallowing. She ties her hair up, smiles at him reassuringly, and then softly kisses the beauty spot on the underside of his dick.

The hand bracing him on his abdomen dips, as his stomach goes concave with a sharp inhale.

“You okay up there?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice gone high-pitched. “You know, I’m starting to think you have something for the suit,” and honestly: no comment. A second later, Peter’s head smacks the wall, every single muscle in his neck pulled taut: “Oh my _god_.”

 

***

 

“My nails are too short,” Peter says, after a moment: he passes her the condom packet.

“So are mine,” M.J. says, but no, it’s cool, it gives her something to--occupy herself with. She starts trying to tear it open with her teeth.

“Let it rip,” Peter says, and then tries to pretend he isn’t super pleased with himself.

“I’m concerned about how it feels like you made that joke for Ned. Except he’s not even here.”

“Yeah, well. He may be physically absent, but not from our hearts.”

“No, not from our hearts. Ned’s going to be in my heart, especially as we have sex for the first time ever--” and her mind almost _blanks out_ as she says it, how is Peter so _fine_ with all this--he shoves at her shoulder, grimacing. “Well then, think twice before you make Beyblade references.”

“I wasn’t thinking!” which she doesn’t respond to, because: duh. She tries again, and the foil finally tears apart.

M.J. carefully removes the ring of plastic, oil-sticky and see-through between her fingers. She looks over at Peter and: they’re going to have sex. It’s not like they haven’t already, except they _haven’t_ , not technically. Her heart suddenly starts picking up the pace, double time, triple time, Andrew Neiman bloodying his fingers on a darkened stage time; she exhales.

“M.J?” Peter asks, eyes roaming her face, concerned.

She shakes her head, hands him the condom. “Do your, uh, thing.” Peter doesn’t immediately take it; when he does, he perfunctorily fits it over his dick, and then looks over at her again. M.J. gives herself a moment, not entirely sure about the structural integrity of her voice. Once she is: “Peter, I’m fine, I am. It’s--whatever. I was going to say I don’t want to make a spectacular mess of this--and I know, I know we’ve gotten really good, just. Fuck it, we get outtakes, right? I’m being stupid, it’s cool.”

“No, it’s _not_ ,” Peter bursts out, and stops. Then, quieter: “No more outtakes, okay? I don’t care. I _love_ the outtakes, I love _all_ of them, and they’re all going in the final cut,” and god, she hadn’t known of this _knot_ in her chest, massive and frankly impossible, until Peter had sliced it in two. “All of them, I don’t _care_ if they’re embarrassing or stupid or shameful, they’re mine, they’re _ours_ ,” and M.J. abruptly presses her face to Peter’s chest. “Yeah?” he asks, voice strained, and this is so beyond the fucking pale, Jesus.  

She lifts her head. “Yeah,” she says, half-laughing, meeting his eyes. “You’re right, yeah. No more outtakes.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> here's the headcanon you didn't ask for: mj's big bro is adonis "donny" played by michael b. jordan, who is an aspiring sports journalist going steady with eduardo "wardo" saverin, played by andrew garfield, who is pursuing a fancy business major with full intentions of spoiling his boyfriend to death with heaps of money one day.....[shakes fist at the major hollywood studios] make this creed/social network mashup production HAPPEN
> 
> [artist sodatrash](https://sodatrash.tumblr.com) made a [CUTE as FUCK nsfw depiction](https://sodatrash.tumblr.com/post/174748802318/who-do-i-have-to-sacrifice-to-have-the-talent-to) of mj & peter's banter so like....check that out! wow!


End file.
